How Many Miracles?
by consultingat221b
Summary: John waits anxiously in the hospital after Sherlock has been shot. He wonders what happened, and whether his friend will make it. When a doctor finally delivers him the news he is relieved. Only to find out that the staff are seriously concerned about the severe scars they have found on Sherlock's back. I will write more chapters if people want this to continue.
1. Hospital

_I am writing this for a semi-popular headcanon I posted on tumblr the other day._

_This is set in His Last Vow, where Sherlock has just been taken into surgery, died, and magically come back for John. Because John is his everything. No. don't get me started on these freaking feels._

_I might right a bit more , but that depends on what people think. If I continue it will become a ficlet._

_Here is the headcanon: we should have had a scene in His Last Vow where the hospital staff ask John if he knows where Sherlock got some severe, but now healed, wounds and slashes on his back from blunt and sharp objects and then we just see John staring into space and blinking as he realises that Sherlock must have gone through something these during his two years away and all John did was attack him and Sherlock never complained and he just stares tearfully as he realises what Sherlock has done for him_

* * *

John had been in the waiting room for a couple of extensive hours now. Time could not drag on for any longer. He tapped his foot anxiously.

He understood that Sherlock could die.

He understood that nothing was fine anymore. Not if Sherlock died. Not again.

There were no more miracles.

And he felt guilty that the one thing irking him right now was the pain he felt from the cheap, plastic seat. He stood up, and leaned impatiently against the equally uncomfortable wall. He felt like he could think with a more level head while standing up.

The wait for the ambulance was awful. He leaned over Sherlock's profusely bleeding body, while he tried to hold back the tears. Magnussen sat there; a suspicious smirk on his face.

He must have known who shot his friend. He just sat there, though. It was extremely eerie, and disracting.

John was not concerned about that. Not now. The shooter had run out of the room like a spineless coward. At least that meant they were no longer a threat. They could not place any more bullets in Sherlock's weak body.

Not yet.

There was a chance.

The paramedics could not get to them instantly. Manussen let them in. He did so with that terrifying smirk on his face, before he cryptically disappeared.

The letters didn't matter.

Magnussen didn't matter

Janine didn't matter.

The other injured man didn't matter.

The unconscious people would be fine. They had acute head wounds. However, Sherlock was on a razor's edge between conciousness and unconsciousness, lofe and death, and he had a gaping hole piercing his fragile body.

John had seen it happen before. He had seen it happen to good fighters. People who he admired. It had even happened to him.

He knew what it was like.

Well, he knew what he remembered happening.

That second of denial where you tell yourself that this is your imagination. There was no deafening sound. No shots fired. And if they were; how could they possibly be fired into you? No. Things like that don't happen to you. Then your knees buckle and you know what has happened.

You don't think about it though.

You think briefly about the people who are left behind.

What song are they going to play at your funeral?

You had planned for this possibility, but was everyone accounted for in the will?

Your sister's alcoholism is going to worsen.

What if no one does care?

What if you are left here to die.

To bleed out.

Your friends are close, they care.

well, they are your colleagues.

Maybe they don't.

What if no one ever finds out?

What if? What if? What if?

And the one thing he always remembered going through his mind was the word: shit.

He had no idea what Sherlock was thinking about. What would Sherlock Holmes' dying thoughts be? He would probably think about an experiment he has left in thee kitchen.

John laughed briefly at that thought.

Before he knew it, though, there was a salty taste intruding his mouth. He was sort of crying now. He never cried. He would have to hide that.

Sherlock had died all those years ago. He jumped to his death. John remembered the gory sight on the ground, the ache in his dry throat.

_God no._

Except he had not died. The bastard came home. He caused him two years of immense agony. However, in the end, it was fine.

It was not _fine_ this time.

It was far from fine. His best friend was dying in a nearby room. He could already be deceased. He might have been forgotten about. Maybe he was bleeding out on a slab. Maybe flies had already accumulated on his rotting flesh. No. Certainly not. Everything would be okay. He was in a hospital.

No it wouldn't.

Even if Sherlock did survive this, he would never be the same again. One bullet wound is enough to destroy everything.

This was ridiculous. After a month of mundane living, Sherlock had given him the opportunity to get the action he craved. And it had end like this.

Every thought was conflicting.

Only that morning he had shouted at the man for foolishly relapsing on drugs. Then he had laughed at him. Then he had been jealous, and he had no idea what to think about that. Then he was working with him. Then he was lying over his near-lifeless body. And now he was waiting for the heart-wrenching news.

He tried to look on the bright side. But he could not think that without that joyful song coming to mind. _Always look on the bright side of life._ It was infuriating. He didn't want that in his head right now. Sadness was all he let himself feel. He wanted to break down and cry.

However, he was not allowed to do that. He knew he could not do that, because he saw a man in a doctors uniform travelling towards him. He could tell that he had news. He could tell the news was for him.

Mycroft had phoned the hospital and allowed them to let John wait and visit Sherlock. Even though the rule was family only.

He was the British government.

John was a doctor, too. He could get doctor privelges.

The man was walking over to him, but he walked so casually. How could anyone walk casually when Sherlock Holmes might be dying. He might be dead.

Oh God.

This was it.

Yes or no.

John could not face this torment again. He instantly stepped away from the wall, and tried to brush his outfit down. He did not want to look like an emotional wreck, however justifiable that was at this moment. Launching his body forwards, he stormed swiftly over to the man.

"Tell me, please. Is he alive?" John asked hastily.

"Sorry, are you Doctor John Watson?"

"Yes I am. Now I need to know." John was breathing so quickly that his words were mere whispers. "Is he?"

"Sherlock Holmes is stable, but he is definitely in a bad state," he said gently.

John could certainly kiss him. He wouldn't, though. He never cried, but he had cried today. Now he wanted to cry out of pure relief. Everything might actually be alright. Thankfully.

"Oh my God. Thank you."

"You have to understand, that it was very close to not being such good news."

"I didn't expect good news. Christ, I can't believe it."

"Would you like to go to consultation room?"

John gently nodded.

The chair was comfy enough to sit on without feeling numb in the consultation room. Or maybe it was just the fact that John felt a lot more relived now, that made him feels so relaxed, but still so on edge.

"John, I hope it is okay if I call you John." John moved his head upwards; then he moved it down again, but he did this subtly. I don't quite know how to say this."

"Just say it," John ordered.

"He died in surgery. The surgeons had given up resuscitating your friend with the defibrillators. Then the extraordinary happened. One of the surgeons saw his finger move, and there was the continuous beep stopped. It was like a–"

"A miracle."

"Indeed."

"The idiot does that. He keeps giving us these miracles."

The doctor laughed softly. A small smile on his face. Clearly, he had read Sherlock's records, and he must have known about his death. Well, his other death. Another one that he survived. He never mentioned it, though. It would be unprofessional to bring up something he had seen in the tabloids.

"Who's Mary?" he asked.

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Mary. I have a wife called my Mary. Why do you need to know?" he questioned.

"His first word when he woke up: Mary!"

John did smile at that.

"He doesn't get along well with most people. It was a shock that he is so understanding of Mary. They are good friends. She'll be so happy to hear that!"

John stifled a laugh. He never expected that to be his first word. If anything, it was a compliment to his wife and how wonderful she was to him. IT was thankful that John had such a friendly wife. John knew Sherlock and her had their laughs, and that they gossiped about him. Mary made Sherlock happy. And John was content with that.

"That's lovely," the doctor said comfortingly.

"Can I see him?"

"It is best if we leave it a while, I think."

"Okay. That's fine."

John understood.

"There is something else I desperately need to ask you about."

"Ask away."

John frowned. He was okay with questions, but they did cause him severe concern.

"Do you know how he got all of those scars? We have nothing on the records about them. They are serious wounds, and they have not been properly treated, although they would have needed stitches at the time."

John's heart plummeted into his stomach. He felt the ache before he spoke again. "Scars?"

"When the surgeons were getting Sherlock prepared for surgery there were harsh scars on his back. Deep gashes that have healed, but not very well. They were cause by various things. Some by sharp objects, others were obviously done by blunt objects."

"I don't understand," John breathed.

"The scars were only on his back."

"What does that mean?"

The doctor that sat diagonally to John took a broad breath. "The sight was reminiscent of torture victims, just not recent wounds."

John's eyes had widened now. It was about seven seconds before he thankfully remembered that he needed to breathe.

He tried to tell himself he had not just heard that. Denial. This whole day he had been full to the brim with denial. He needed to accept some things.

"Do you know when he would have received these wounds?"

"They are still very visible. It seems they are a little over a year old. It is tough to be certain, though. Sorry"

"They aren't infected, are they? The wounds."

"No, not currently. However, they might have previously been infected. There were indications that the wounds were reopened."

"Christ."

Sherlock had sauntered back into John's life at the worst possible time'; in the worst possible way. However, it was no excuse for what John did to his friend.

_"Are you really going to keep that?"_

_John slammed him the the hard ground._

_He never complained._

_"No. Twenty-five at most."_

_John attempted to throttle him. For the second time._

_He never complained._

_"You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world."_

_John attacked him for the third time that night._

_He never complained._

_The next night he sped through London on a motorbike, and crawled into a seething bonfire to rescue him._

_John hardly thanked him enough for that._

Maybe not all of these memories reopened the painful scars, but Sherlock was such a fool to never complain. John was a doctor. He would have helped.

Instead he cause him more injuries.

Maybe Sherlock was trying to make John's life easier. It probably worked in the short run. Although, now John felt guilt wash through his blood. He felt flooded with guilt.

He remembered what he said in his first blog entry after Sherlock returned.

_"Turns out he'd faked his death because Moriarty had threatened those close to him. Including me. He'd gone into hiding, happy to leave me and everyone else thinking he was dead. He'd done it to save us but he hadn't trusted us enough to tell us what was really going on. Not sure I'll ever truly forgive him for that but as the saying goes, life goes on."_

He never knew what Sherlock had gone through. Perhaps he never would, but at some point in those two years, while he was in hiding, something terrible must have happened to him. Maybe he never recovered from it.

And all John did was slam his to the ground.

John took a deep breath.

"Are you all right, doctor Watson?"

"Fine. A bit shocked," he lied.

"As soon as all the room arrangements are sorted out you will be able to see your friend. He will have been administered morphine, so it is likely that he will be sleeping. As soon as it is suitable for you to see him, we will allow you to."

"Thank you."

"One more thing. I do recommend that you talk to him about this. We are allowed to share this with you, because we believe he might have been in danger. His other contact in his direct family: Mycroft, will also be informed. We ask you not to share it with anyone else. For his safety. Just in case."

"Of course."

"You can go and wait outside. Treat yourself to a cup of tea or coffee. You deserve something."

John nodded absently. His eyes were misty, but he tried to hide that.

He looked back in retrospect and tried to piece everything together.

And he continued to stare into the distance.


	2. Back To Baker Street

The relief of finding out Sherlock was alive wore off soon after _that night_.

If John was to look back to that time three months ago he stared back in bitterness. The resent fumed through his veins.

He had smiled at Sherlock's first word. Ignorantly, believed that his friend wanted to see Mary and craved her kind company.

How could he have known?

His first words were 'Mary' for very different reasons.

He was angry at Mary. Angry at Mrs Hudson. Angry and Sherlock. Angry at the whole damn universe.

The rage he felt for Mary far outweighed the rest of his aggravation.

He watched Sherlock on the brink of death for the third time that day. He collapsed. Luckily, the paramedics worked efficiently, but he would not stay with Mary knowing that she did that to his best friend. They shared their last glance, and John could not help but notice that her eyes looked dull. Emotionless. Almost like she didn't care that Sherlock was heaving and convulsing on the floor as the trusty staff resuscitated his lifeless form.

So he moved back into his old Baker Street home.

It seemed warmer than the house he shared with his wife, his betrayer. The furniture was laid out in a mess, and there was a constant smell of chemicals mixed with the gentle scent of Mrs Hudson's lovely tea.

Mary was obviously one of the reasons that he departed his old home, but he primarily moved to take care of Sherlock. The man could not be left alone. He was a hazard to himself with his lack of adequate self-care. Plus, he was still wounded.

In more ways than he knew John understood.

* * *

"How's the pain?" John asked.

"How's Mrs Watson?" Sherlock retorted. He seemed to genuinely mean the question, but John was content not thinking about Mary.

"Don't say her name."

John sighed elaborately as he perched himself in his comfortable armchair. He had taken his shoes off, now that this was his home again doing something so simple seemed right. The soft texture of the carpet was rougher than he remembered. It had changed.

Everything changed.

Nothing was the same.

"Tea?"

John raised his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry?"

"Would you like a cup of tea? Apparently, people think that a cup of tea helps. I don't know what with."

John stifled a laughed. He shook his head.

"Don't try to make tea, Sherlock."

The taller man, sat opposite him, furrowed his bushy brows. "What? Why not?"

"Because," John started, groaning as he readjusted his position, "You have poisoned my tea before, and any other attempts at making teas have been awful. Like that time you forgot to put water in."

"Water is not necessary for tea."

"Tea always has water in it, Sherlock." John grabbed a newspaper from the table. It was the Metro. Free, but relatively dull. It was something. Any distraction would do. "Besides, you have a bloody bullet wound."

"So do you."

"From four odd years ago."

He glanced back down at the paper.

A red double-decker bus glided past the window, blocking out all light. For a moment the room was completely dark.

John subtly looked up from behind the newspaper when he noticed the curly-haired man jump and shudder.

He didn't mention it.

He bit his tongue.

"How's the pain?"

"Manageable."

"Make sure you let me know if you need any painkillers. Don't ignore it. I'm recording this all in a notepad. Just to be safe."

"Naturally. You are a doctor."

John hummed as he read through a nonsense article about the increase in technology. It seemed frivolous in the grand scheme of things.

"Any cases?"

Sherlock exaggerated the rolling of his eyes.

"Lestrade thinks it is best if I rest. The audience on your blog has gone down, and I didn't think you would want to invest your time in some pointless case."

John murmured something as he blew out a soft breath. And Sherlock stared at him. The stare said clearly told John to say whatever he had just muffled out loud.

"I enjoy working on cases with you, Sherlock. I always will."

"Well, not always. You probably will not be alive for any more than half a century, and looking at your dietary choices, that number instantly decreases–"

"Yes. Thank you. And you are hardly one to talk about diets. You hardly eat! I was just saying I enjoy spending time with you. I will until the end of my days."

"How heart-warming," Sherlock mumbled.

John chuckled. That was the attitude he liked. The good-old typical Sherlock attitude. He did wish Sherlock would say something.

He didn't know what to say. Sherlock seemed so detached after his injuries.

He cleared his throat. "What about Magnussen?"

Sherlock ignored John.

"Have you been in contact? You said he was all that matters. Not that you are really up to doing anything now."

"Patience is a virtue, John. All in good time."

John simply nodded. It was pointless broaching the issue any further. He left it at that.

There was a more important issue at hand. An issue that was itching at the back of John's scratchy throat.

"At your last hospital visit, Sherlock," John paused as he looked at the man opposite him blankly looking at the wall with his bony hands steepled in front of his face. "Sherlock? Sherlock? Do my words always go straight through your ears."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Ears are not simple holes in the head, and contrary to your dull belief, I do have a brain. A rather superior one."

"And don't we all know it! Just... listen?"

Sherlock hopped up and moved so that his feet were placed under his body. He crouched on his chair.

"Did you get to talk to the staff when you last went to the hospital? Cause you ran away after your injury, but when you collapsed and went back... did they speak to you about anything? I never spoke to you about it."

"If they did I would have filtered out their useless babble."

"Okay."

Sherlock stood up then, and paced over to the monochromatic kitchen. He moved a bit too fast for John's liking. Theoretically, he should not even be sat on a chair. Lying in a bed would be safer. John didn't argue, though. Arguing with Sherlock was impossible.

"What's this infuriating questioning all about, John?"


End file.
